


carry you home in my teeth

by Kierkegarden



Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Bathroom Sex, Bits of Diego character work woven into smut, Dirty Talk, Drugs, Kink Meme, M/M, Oral Sex, Pre-Canon, Rimming, Semi-Unreliable Narrator, Slutty Klaus, Smut, cum?, prostitute!Klaus, smut with a backbone of angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-27
Updated: 2019-11-27
Packaged: 2021-02-27 01:07:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21578914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kierkegarden/pseuds/Kierkegarden
Summary: Klaus is taking his time with a cigarette, leaned up against the brick wall. His clear rehab-approved backpack is squished behind him, strapped across his bare shoulders. The velour top barely covers his chest let alone midsection. Diego lets his eyes follow the hairs that lead down into his pants, the same fucking strappy number he’s been wearing day-in, day-out for the good part of a week.  He wonders bleakly how a person can even come off as so debauched, just by standing there, swirling smoke through his lungs and out his chapped pink lips.The smoke floats so easily down his throat. It’s enough to make Diego uncomfortably aware of his own skin.
Relationships: Diego Hargreeves/Klaus Hargreeves
Comments: 12
Kudos: 127





	carry you home in my teeth

Klaus announces that he’s going to quit over dinner. 

It’s the same story, different day: Klaus lying to get what he wants and Diego eating it up, just to be burned again. He was going to put his foot down and kick Klaus out this time. He was _going_ to kick Klaus out the last three times, after the cigarette burns in his comforter, and the spare change that mysteriously goes missing, and the strange men who have begun lurking outside of the boxing gym. Hell, the boss man’s threatened eviction, and Diego is fully aware that he’s the one accountable for Klaus’s fuck-ups. If he fucks up again, they’re both on the streets.

Klaus doesn’t deserve to be dignified with the conversation, let alone trust. How many chances, Diego wonders, will I give him?

Then, he steps outside where the windchill rips through his turtleneck and bites goosebumps into his skin and he remembers. It’s dark by four. Klaus is warm in here. The hope that he’ll stick to sobriety flickers dimmer with each broken promise, but Diego remembers a time where his brother’s wrists were constantly lined with plastic bracelets -- from emergency rooms and rehabs, sometimes overlapping with the neon wristbands admitting him into warehouses and clubs, like luck charms -- and he can’t bring himself to do it. 

Saving lives: That’s what Diego does.

Klaus announces that he’s going to quit over dinner, after Diego has threatened to kick him out. This time, he’s managed to break the washer and flood the boiler room, which is a safety hazard and, worse yet, a nuisance. Diego isn’t used to wearing dirty clothes.

Diego stares him down and takes a slow, thoughtful bite of his lettuce wrap.

“Are you even sober right now?”

Klaus is looking at him through his lashes, and Diego honestly can’t remember where the drugs end and where Klaus begins. So many years, he thinks, of repeated abuse have got to do something to your brain. He doesn’t quite know the extent of what Klaus gets up to, or the lengths he will go to to get a fix -- but Diego has seen some shit while shadowing at the police academy. He bristles at the thought of his brother trading away his humanity for drugs. Drugs are evil, Diego thinks.

“I’m not...not sober,” Klaus laughs, dreamily, tongue darting out of his mouth for no particular reason other than the fact that he’s _Klaus_ and he gets to do things like that without anyone thinking anything of it, “You know, in Russian, a double negative is a --”

“Save it,” Diego rolls his eyes. “I don’t care. One of these days, you’re going to get me kicked out -- of my home, of my job -- It’s just, the same shit, Klaus, over and fucking over again. I’m late on rent, man. I’ve already got enough on my plate.”

“Hey,” Klaus makes a big show of reaching deep into his coat pocket, “Hey hey, that’s all you had to say to me. Take it easy, I can provide. Since I won't be needing this for drugs --” his voice cracks painfully around the word as he reveals five twenty dollar bills all rolled suspiciously into tubes, “See? Sober.”

Diego eyes the money suspiciously. “I’m not taking your blood money.”

“Oh, it’s not,” Klaus lets out an airy giggle, “Sweat and tears sometimes, I’ll give you. And --”

Diego sends him a look so ferocious that it manages to shut him up. Sweat and tears? He shifts uncomfortably in his chair. And...and…

He tries not to picture the mental montage of Klaus getting drilled in five different positions, by five different guys, Klaus all splayed out and used as they shove the money at him and leave without getting him off. He tries not to picture that happening _here_ in his home, while he’s off at the academy. 

“Diego?” Klaus has very much invaded his personal bubble, the sweat-and-tears money held out in front of him like a truce. 

Diego swipes it without saying a word.

Not a week passes, before Klaus announces that he’s going to a party at The Kiln. He’s wearing those stupid, slutty black pants and a velour top, one of the only outfits he owns. Unlike Diego, he has not been going to the laundromat and Diego can smell it on him, stale cigarettes and sweat, burning through his appetite until he can’t even stomach the protein shake he’s drinking. He slams it down with such vigor that it shakes the rickety little table. 

“Heavens, Diego, is that man-juice full of extra testosterone and pent up rage?” Klaus smirks, “Because I think I’m going to need to call an intervention.”

Diego thinks about fifty one-liners he can make with the phrase “man-juice,” promptly realizes that that is the exact reaction that Klaus is trying to goad out of him, and swallows them all. Then, he silently curses Klaus for making him think about the words “swallow” and “man-juice” in the same sentence.

“I thought you were sober!” He roars instead.

Klaus shrugs. “You can, you know, go to a party sober. It is possible.”

Possible, yes, Diego thinks, for someone else, maybe, at a less skeevy venue. The Kiln lives up to its name. It’s hot and small and packed full of filth. Diego has been on several drug busts in the area, he’s quite familiar. God forbid, he thinks to himself, he ever has to bust Klaus. Something about his brother is liquid, he can ooze his way into even the darkest and most damaged corners of Diego’s heart and work him, and always _always_ get what he wants. 

Liquid. Ooze. Work him. Diego shakes his head rapidly back and forth as if to clear the thought. It has to be those stupid leather pants.

“Fine,” Diego says, to hear his own voice mostly, and before he can stop himself, he adds, “I’m going with you.”

“I’m not sure it’s really your scene.”

“Yeah?” Diego is suddenly defensive, “I guess we’ll just have to see.”

  
  


Outside the club, the sickly sweet scent of fog machines is giving Diego a rush. The loud thrum of bass is pounding from within, and through the dark entryway, he can already see the strobing of multicolored lights. The music sounds terrible to him, but he nods his head along anyway. Buzzing around the doorway are a handful of other people around their age, dressed like Klaus. Diego doesn’t look totally out of place himself, with his custom leather holster and skin tight black jeans. For a brief moment, he fears that someone might recognize him from the police academy -- or God forbid, they get a call out this way -- but then he remembers his primary objective: Keep Klaus sober.

It’s better than an excuse, Diego thinks, it’s the truth -- and that’s what he intends to do. 

Klaus is taking his time with a cigarette, leaned up against the brick wall. His clear rehab-approved backpack is squished behind him, strapped across his bare shoulders. The velour top barely covers his chest let alone midsection. Diego lets his eyes follow the hairs that lead down into his pants, the same fucking strappy number he’s been wearing day-in, day-out for the good part of a week. He wonders bleakly how a person can even come off as so debauched, just by standing there, swirling smoke through his lungs and out his chapped pink lips.

The smoke floats so easily down his throat. It’s enough to make Diego uncomfortably aware of his own skin.

“Are you done yet?”

Klaus’s eyes flash back to him and he puts out the cigarette against the brick with a little bounce.

“I wasn’t aware we were working on a time frame. Are you always this much fun at parties?”

Diego gives a little grunt of annoyance and marches forward, into the dim entryway. The bouncer eyes them both, stamps their hands without checking ID -- Lovely, Diego thinks, what a fine establishment -- but before he can think much more, Klaus pulls him out onto the dance floor.

Diego notices a few things in rapid succession. The music, if it can be called that, is as pulsating and enveloping as a heartbeat. With every screech and slide of the synth and thrum of the overpowering bass, the floor is flooded with a wave of black light. On the off beats, the strobe dims to a black. This, Diego thinks, is standard. It’s enough to give anyone a seizure, sober or not, but it’s standard and it’s all well and good. That is, until he turns back to Klaus.

With every black light beat, Klaus’s ridiculous strappy black pants light up like a glow worm, and with every off beat, they go dark again. It’s such a massive light show that at first, Diego thinks, it must be intentional and he’s just never gotten the chance to see the pants at their disco finest. 

Then, he notices _where_ exactly they are lighting up. It starts, a solid beam of light at Klaus’s crotch and spreads -- spatters -- across his thighs. Evidence of what Diego thinks must be attempts at clean-up pattern in swatches on the knees. He can feel his breath hitch, a mixture of disgust and embarrassment, and then he can feel his balls draw up and the firmness of his dick against his skinny jeans, and realizes there’s something else there too.

Klaus, spacey as ever, hasn’t even seemed to notice. He has somehow found it in him to enjoy this dreadful cacophony even sober, and is swaying back and forth, his eyes closed. It figures. Diego can feel everyone else’s eyes on him, can hear their laughter cutting through the hypnotic pulses and suddenly realizes that everyone must think that this is _his_ mess. He feels himself flush as his dick gives a stubborn throb.

“Klaus,” he growls. Klaus’s eyes flutter back open, as Diego gestures downwards.

Klaus blinks and smiles. He almost looks proud of himself.

“Oops. That is quite noticeable, isn’t it?” he whispers, all coquettish in Diego’s ear and if _that_ doesn’t send a wave of heat through Diego’s stomach, he’s not being honest with himself. It’s been less than a week since the washer broke. How many men has Klaus let fuck him in that time? 

Diego grabs a fistful of shiny plastic and directs Klaus by the backpack straight into the men’s room. He doesn’t put up much of a fight. Of course he doesn’t.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Diego pushes him up against the wall. He doesn’t mean it to be sexy. He isn’t sure how he means it to be, but Klaus looks so relaxed with his wrists locked, like his natural habitat is a men’s room with some horny stranger breathing his breath. Except Diego is not a stranger. Diego is running out of ways to define their relationship.

“I t-told you that this wouldn’t be your scene.”

Klaus’s eyes drop down, devouring Diego whole. He lingers on the conspicuous bulge -- and then rolls them back up. Diego has never felt competitive with Klaus before, mostly because Klaus has never given him a challenge. He’s been _challenging_ , yes, but Diego has always held back the energy he reserves for bad guys. Klaus is not a bad guy, just misguided, just taken advantage of, just the underdog, needy, desperate -- Diego cuts himself short. 

He gets off on this, he thinks, how slutty do you have to be to get off on this? 

“You like it?” Klaus whispers, inches from his lips, “Do you wanna add your own finishing touches?”

Diego lets out a half-groan, half-growl and pushes them inside a stall, because for all Klaus might not care, he still has shame, and a little dignity left, and that’s what separates the two of them. He pushes Klaus over the toilet, rewarded with an indecent mewl, and pulls those disgusting pants down to his knees. Something about that skinny bare ass makes Diego go animal. He spreads Klaus’s cheeks, and lays one cold thumb across his hole, nudging his perineum.

Klaus groans and thrusts back, sinking Diego’s thumb inside. Without lube, the fit is stiff and dry.

“Are you trying to hurt yourself?” Diego breath comes hot against Klaus’s back, “Do you get off on that too?”

He scrapes his fingernails down across Klaus’s sides until both hands are stretching him wide open. Klaus writhes under his touch, electric, for once at a loss for words. Then, without warning, Diego buries his face there. With slow strokes of the wide of his tongue, he begins to lap at it. He feels it pucker beneath his tongue and presses his lips down, almost like a kiss.

Diego could do this forever. Literally. He wonders briefly what Klaus would get up to if he had the ability to hold his breath indefinitely, and the thought sends pinpricks to his neglected cock. Even without any special gifts, he imagines Klaus would be quite accomplished at sucking people off, all sloppy and eager and desperate to please.

Encouraged by the slick of his own spit and Klaus’s ridiculous little yelps, Diego tongues him deeper, widening the hole. When he finally does come up, he admires that Klaus’s ass is now flushing a deep red, humping the air as he hugs the toilet seat. 

“Mmm,” A tremble runs through Klaus’s body as he turns to face him, still on his knees, “Buy a girl dinner first, yeah?”

Diego’s breath catches. God, he looks so beautiful there, and it’s making his mind hazy.

“Hungry?”

“Starving,” Klaus breathes. He paws at Diego’s fly and Diego lets him -- lets him pull his pants and underwear down the same way Klaus’s are. It makes Diego feel more exposed than if he were naked. He floods with relief as his cock bounces free and Klaus’s eyes widen as he takes it in. It’s almost funny, as though he’s never seen a dick before. 

Klaus knows his way around a dick, though, and within a few moments, it becomes clear that he’s a professional. Diego thinks, this may have disgusted him at one point, maybe even earlier today, and maybe it still does, but all he can think about is how good his mouth feels around him. His tongue applies the perfect pressure across the base, swivelling back and forth as Klaus takes him all the way back into his throat. 

It’s mesmerizing to watch, his cheeks puffing out, spit and precome dripping down onto the tiles. Little tears spring into the corners of Klaus’s eyes and he moans, vibrating around Diego. Diego is tempted to grab the base of his skull and fuck it without mercy, but he tempers himself, slows his thrusts down to a crawl, until finally he lets himself fall out of Klaus’s mouth entirely.

It’s still open and pooling with spit, when Klaus makes a little noise of interest -- a gurgle around the wetness. He swallows, licks his lips, and pulls himself up against the wall.

“So,” the words strain in Klaus’s throat, scratchy, and Diego can hardly stand it, “So you do want to fuck me or not?”

“I wasn’t aware we were on a timeframe.”

Klaus reaches into his sock -- Ew, Diego thinks, and then recontextualizes it to the situation -- and pulls out a crumpled up bottle.

“Take your time,” he says, “I’ve got nowhere to be.”

“You brought lube?”

Klaus is breathing his own scent back into his face. 

“I always bring lube.”

“Slut,” Diego says.

“ _Whore_.” 

For a second, Diego is furious before he realizes that it's a correction and not an accusation.

“I’ll take either, though,” Klaus drawls, “Either, all, any.”

“Yeah,” Diego says, “I know.”

Diego stretches him open. It’s a process, but Diego really has no point of reference. It’s not like he gets laid much, and typically in the past, he’s not had to worry about preparation. He wonders idly how many of Klaus’s clients bother to prepare him, or if Klaus even cares. 

He scissors his lube-slick fingers deep inside of Klaus, and Klaus arches back, but his fingers aren’t long enough to do much damage, as it were. Klaus does most of the work, bouncing against him like it’s nothing. 

“Ready?” Diego drags his hand out achingly slow and Klaus’s breath catches.

“God, yes, I was ready like last week.”

“Mm,” Diego guides his cock to Klaus’s hole. They’re still standing, and the angle isn’t quite right, and the toilet is flushing in the stall next to them, but before Diego can really think about any of that, Klaus is already pushing back, forcing Diego into him.

“God,” Diego groans, “Klaus, slow --”

But Klaus is already bucking his hips and Diego’s body is too far gone to stop him. He matches the rhythm of the music, still audible from the club, letting it quicken, and Klaus’s hips become fire underneath his fingertips. With a sudden realization, Diego wraps his arms around Klaus and takes his cock into his fist.

“K-Klaus, I’m going to --” Diego wants to keep going. He really does, and God, it’s only fair to Klaus if he does, but he’s only human. 

“MMm,” Klaus whines, and without warning, he explodes, seed spilling through Diego’s fingers and down onto his pants. That’s all it takes for Diego to give in too. He lets out a low groan, letting himself ride out the waves of his orgasm til he’s stilled inside of Klaus. His back is killing him, legs gone tingly and numb and yet he stays there, listening to the panting of their breath.

He stays there. He wonders how many other people stay there.

It’s a walk of shame back to the car, pants pulled awkwardly back up around his mess. Diego is keenly aware, walking across the dance floor, that his pants are now also lighting up with every drop of the bass. Does that make him the same as Klaus? He keeps his head down and tries not to draw attention.

The rev of the engine has always been a comfort to Diego. It’s his own little reminder that no matter how shitty things get, he can always drive away from them. He never has to be stuck, like he was as a child. 

The pedal creaks under his foot as he accelerates and Klaus is uncharacteristically quiet. 

I don’t want this to be just another Hargreeves secret, Diego thinks, one of those tiny traumas that’s put away in a dark place and never talked about again. They’re very good at that, as a family, putting things away. Compartmentalizing. Diego supposes that’s how he can fuck Klaus without it being weird. 

Or maybe he’s always been weird. 

Or maybe he’s always wanted to fuck Klaus.

“I’m uh,” Diego’s voice is still throaty. He’s parched and could go for some food as well, “sorry I called you a slut.”

Klaus shrugs. “It was hot.”

“Proud of you for staying sober at the party.”

Klaus gives him a half-hearted smile.

“So...can that be my rent payment?”

Diego slams on the breaks, barely noticing the stop sign in time. He doesn’t know why that hurts so much, but it does.

“What the fuck, man? No? Just don’t...don’t worry about rent.”

Klaus’s eyes drop. “I was kind of hoping we could do a month-to-month.”

Suddenly, the fantasy fades completely and Diego remembers that this is Klaus -- Klaus who doesn’t know how much soap to put in a washing machine. Klaus who doesn’t know the difference between sex and prostitution. Klaus, who needs Diego’s protection to not get taken advantage of. Klaus, the underdog.

Diego tries again. “We could d-do it again some time, if you’d like. Just because we want to. If...you want to.”

“Yeah,” Klaus’s hand joins his own on the center console, as the neon street speeds by, “Sounds like a plan.”

Klaus has never been good at sticking to plans. In fact, right now, he’s probably mentally calculating the easiest way to get high tonight, after Diego goes to sleep. He probably won't tell Diego about it in the morning, he’ll just wait for Diego to pick up the signs. The missing stuff, his pupils dilating, his skin going waxy and pale. He’ll wait for Diego to threaten to kick him out and then he’ll announce he’s going to quit, with those eyes that Diego can’t say no to. And then Diego will cook for him, and try to make sure he eats healthy and stays off the streets, and start chiseling at his addiction with a different knife, trying desperately to cut it out. Probably, Diego thinks, because that’s how it’s always gone. And that’s how it will go, because that’s what Diego does. 

As far as plans go, there have certainly been worse.

**Author's Note:**

> Uhm, was not going to post this initially but here we are. Title from The Mountain Goats. Prompt from the Kink Meme.


End file.
